


You and I found love, lost under the shade

by angelichl



Category: One Direction (Band)
Genre: Aftercare, Anal Fingering, BDSM, Blindfolds, Canon Compliant, Cuddling & Snuggling, Dom Louis, Dom/sub, Duct Tape, Hand Jobs, Handcuffs, Hotel Sex, Kinda, Love Bites, M/M, Overstimulation, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Porn with Feelings, Rope Bondage, Sub Harry, and then the cute stuff, essentially Harry is Louis' baby, get ready y'all, im sorry, oh lord what else, okay here we go, ropes and ties, showering together but w/o sex which is nice for a change u know?, yep ok this is just porn nothing else
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-10-01
Updated: 2017-10-01
Packaged: 2019-01-07 21:39:13
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,466
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12241107
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/angelichl/pseuds/angelichl
Summary: The pain is a distraction. It pulls him to the present, forces him to think simply, drags him into the spaces between the letters of the wordnow.There's no time to think of anything else, anything other than the strange and dissonant mixture of pleasure and pain.





	You and I found love, lost under the shade

**Author's Note:**

> Hi loves! I've had this drabble written for months now but clearly I've been hesitant to publish it. I think I've tagged everything but if you notice anything please tell me.
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> As always, I don't own anything so please don't come after me.
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> Do not show this to anyone related to H/L.
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> 
> The title is from "Falling Asleep on a Stranger" by Pierce the Veil.

There’s pleasure in penance.

These words are running through his mind as he’s shoved onto the bed. Pleasure in penance… release in retribution. He can barely remember his name but he knows these words, knows they’re true. Hands claws at him hastily, to tear off his clothes, until he’s left naked and vulnerable. Heart pounding.

Pleasure in penance, release in retribution, on the hotel bed he finds reprieve. A little tiny oasis from the suffering. His boyfriend is on top of him, playing the part of the perfect dom, and through the closed blinds the golden sunlight is streaming in. It’s mid-afternoon, just after three o’clock, and though the city is bustling just as it does on any given day, they’re on the eleventh floor of the hotel so the noises on the streets are nearly muted.

Their own little heavenly getaway. Their own little dark paradise.

He lies there, trying to be still, and failing when Louis grabs his bicep, hard, which startles him even though it shouldn’t. His back is arching and his legs are tensing as Louis aggressively squeezes his arm again, followed by a harsh tug to Harry’s hair.

In a cold voice, the words “be still” bite through the air, and Harry stills in submission, despite the pain. There’s burning in his scalp where his hair is tugged, burning in his arm where his skin is pressed, burning in his groin where his arousal is siphoned. There’s another harsh yank at his curls and this time he can’t keep quiet, can’t keep the groan from leaving his lips, solidifying his pain.

“Shut up!” Louis barks, releasing his vise-like grip on Harry’s upper arm for a moment in favor of slapping Harry in the face. The smack rings through the air like a confession of a sin. He grits his teeth in pain, but relishes in it. Wants more of it.

After that, he keeps his mouth shut. A while ago he might’ve spoken up, talked back, just for the punishment. Because he enjoys it. Nowadays he takes it more seriously because the punishments, in turn, have increased in severity. Rather than spanking or something equally as pleasurable, Louis will ignore him. Tie him up and leave him in the dark for a while, and come back long after Harry has broken down, shattered to pieces. Louis does this because he knows it hurts more than any physical punishment. Louis knows that the humiliation of being left in the dark, unable to move, stranded on the hotel bed and completely at the will of another human being, is worse than any beating.

There’s a lot of grappling as Louis yanks Harry’s skinny jeans completely off of him. It takes a while to get the cuffs around his feet, and Harry tries to help out by lifting his legs, but Louis clamps his hand around Harry’s ankles and orders him to stop moving. The command is punctuated by the long drag of his fingernail down the inside of Harry’s thigh, leaving a bright, raised red line on the milky white skin. It stings and burns, on fire. Harry thinks it’s peculiar how shallow wounds often burn more than the real abrasions.

When he feels his eyes water, he closes his eyelids to the pain. All to keep the tears away.

Louis must see this and decide he doesn’t like it, won’t let it happen, so he grabs Harry’s jaw and seethes, “open your eyes. I want you to fucking watch.” So shiny green eyes flash open obediently to meet steely blue ones.

“I’m gonna tie you up, and then I’m gonna leave you here. You’re gonna fucking lay here and be still until I come back and tell you otherwise. Got it?”

Harry’s stomach dips, as if he has suddenly swallowed a heavy weight. Louis is going to tie him up and leave him, for God knows how long. It’s been hours, sometimes. The worst hours of his life those are, when he lays there, bent in an uncomfortable position, naked and ashamed and afraid, in pain. Looking for a release, any type of release. Not able to find it until Louis allows him to find it.

His eyes must truly look panicked, because he notices that Louis’ dominant front begins to slip. This is a mistake, because during these times Louis can become very uncertain of the punishments he’s administering, causing him to falter like he’s breaking character. In the past it’s happened more than once when he had been punishing Harry, and either the screams of agony or the look on his face as too much because Louis would stop to reevaluate the situation and ask if Harry was okay.

Almost always the answer is yes, he is okay, except for one time in particular, short before they discussed safe words. It had been so late at night that the time could’ve been considered early morning, probably around four AM. The two of them were deliriously high, eyes glassy and rimmed red, in addition to being stupidly drink on straight vodka.

Everything was fine, but Louis had been pushing the limits, not stopping for hours. Harry figures the overstimulation is what got to him—a night full of orgasm after orgasm after orgasm, all in an extremely rapid succession. The overstimulation was the cause, plus the strange mix of praise and punishment, his boyfriend switching impossibly quick between spewing compliments and inflicting pain.

When it happened, Harry had been blindfolded, which only added to the maelstrom of chaos swirling within his drunken mind—take away one sense and the rest become heightened. He was sprawled out across the bed, hands tied to the headboard, unmoving except for the occasional quiver. Yet Louis wasn’t letting him rest. He had three fingers pumping in and out of him, his other hand stroking Harry with urgency. Harry himself was tied up, arms above his head ad wrists handcuffed to the headboard, a black blindfold covering his eyes and a gag in his mouth.

Looking back, even if they had discusses a safe word prior to the night, he wouldn’t have been able to use it since the gag made it impossible for him to do anything except moan and whine. He had gasped and writhed and squirmed for hours, but at this point he was done, exhausted, drained. At the time they had lost count, but later they figured it would’ve been his sixth orgasm of the night.

It was too much, and Harry laid limp on the bed, completely unresponsive save for a tiny moan as the last of his come covered his belly, and in a way it felt like trying to throw up when his stomach was empty, dry heaving. He had been fucked dry after hours of intense sex, and he was spent, completely done, not sure if he could last a minute longer. Anymore would’ve killed him, at least, that’s what it felt like.

What had pulled him over the top was that Louis didn’t let up, not then, not even after the sixth high. He spread his fingers, the one’s buried deep within Harry, and twisted them, simultaneously jacking Harry off in a manner that was relentless. It always hurt the worst right after an orgasm, the heavy, long drags of Louis’ palm against Harry’s sensitive, cum-covered skin. Always made him dizzy, dreary. His vision would’ve been swirling, maybe he would’ve even blacked out, but due to the blindfold everything was already black anyway.

Too much. It had been too much. His senses blurred, sounds muted, everything becoming fuzzy before he blacked out for a second. The brink between consciousness and unconsciousness.

When he came to, just moments later, Louis was crouched next to him, eyes probably wide and fearful, sticky hands grasping Harry’s jaw, the blindfold pulled off and discarded beside them on the bed.

Days, weeks, months later and Louis still refuses to share exactly what he saw in Harry in that moment that frightened him so much. To this day Harry doesn’t know exactly what it was that scared Louis enough to make him stop.

In his drunken haze, Louis felt the deep, fiery buildup of panic within his gut, and climbed high up on the bed, over Harry, to fumble with the handcuffs and the blindfold and the gag until Harry was free. Later Louis would describe Harry's expression as dazed. Far away. At the sight of his lover in clear delirium, Louis was more than frightened. They didn't have sex for days after that, and even then, Louis had vowed to tread lightly. No more pushing Harry to his limits. Not like that, at least. Not so dangerously.

Thus the arise of their own little safe word, one Harry has yet to use since they discussed it: kiwi.

(Secretly, he wants to try it out, wants to use it, wants to let it fall from the tip of his tongue in a desperate gasp, begging Louis to stop. Yet, in the same way he's quite thankful Louis hasn't given him a real reason to use it yet.)

Back in the present, Harry is trying to prevent Louis from recoiling. In an act of proving his wellbeing, Harry contorts his face into a disobedient scowl, the opposite of submission. Reassured that he really is okay enough to retaliate, Louis continues on without faltering once more.

He leaves the bedside and returns a quick moment later with something in his hands—a roll of shiny gray duct tape. Louis pulls Harry's legs together and then gets to work, first by tightly taping his ankles together, then another band around his shins, another around his knees, and finally his thighs. The loud sound of the tape is nearly cacophonous, wrenching in Harry's ears. By the time Louis is done, Harry is rendered useless, and feels like a mermaid with his legs bound together. It'll hurt like hell when they take it off later, but he can barely think that far into the future, can only think of the burning want that is scorching his entire being.

Of everything, most of the draw to BDSM has to do with the distraction. It pulls him to the present, forces him to think simply, drags him into the spaces between the letters of the word now. There's no time to think of anything else, anything other than the strange and dissonant mixture of pleasure and pain.

Louis harshly shoves Harry over, pressing down hard on his shoulder blades and forcing his face into the mattress. Roughly, he grabs Harry's arms and drags them behind his back, as far as he can pull them, and then ties his wrists together, bounding them with duct tape. It certainly isn't a comfortable position, with his shoulders extended backwards and his arms twisted unnaturally. He closes his eyes and wills his muscles to relax, knowing he'll be sore tomorrow either way.

With one last touch, Louis turns Harry onto his side, harshly as always. The final addition is a thick strip of tape pressed firmly over Harry's mouth. After the tape is on, Louis repositions Harry so that he's laying on his stomach, neck craned, head turn to the side, cheek pressed to the mattress. Harry inhales heavily through his nose, a little panicky at the feeling of not being able to breathe. He wills himself to calm down.

It happens quickly, with little warning. The sound of something whizzing through the air. And then an unexpected smack, harsh and biting, nearly acerbic, palm against the bare skin of his bum. He can't help but squeak in response, through his closed lips and the strip of tape.

The little noise only spurs Louis on more. There's a total of ten hits, Harry counts, and they're hard, none of them wimpy or half-assed. If he had the wherewithal to form a coherent thought, he would be thinking about the marks that would remain for a few days, the lingering redness, how it would hurt every time he sat down. But all he can think about is now now now. The immediate pain. The following pleasure. The building heat in his groin. The need for release. The feeling of Louis' hands on his skin . . .

Peace in penance. Peace in penance. Peace in penance. Relief in retribution. Or was it release in retribution? Reprieve works too. Peace in penance, release in retribution. Something in vulnerability. Harry doesn't have the energy or the wherewithal to come up with a noun that starts with the letter V.

The spanking stops, and the stinging lingers for a moment, until it is eventually replaced with the familiar numb tingling that usually follows such abuse. Louis lifts his hand from Harry's burning skin in favor of carding his fingers through Harry's hair. The gentle gesture is a surprise, given its juxtaposition to the previous actions, but it's followed by a sharp tug that prickles in his scalp.

"I'll be back to finish you off in an hour or so," Louis supplies, voice cold, cold, cold. Icy like a lonely winter evening after the sun goes down and the world is quiet and ghostly empty.

Time passes. Time passes like the ticking of the clock, slow but constant, steady. Time passes. The earth rotates and revolves. Seconds tick away. Minutes.

In the four o'clock sunlight, golden and bright, the word comes to him.

Valor. Valor in vulnerability.

 

+

 

He spends the hour with his motion restricted, helplessly rutting his hips against the mattress to relieve some of the burning need in his groin. It both helps and makes it worse, the feeling of being on the edge of release but not quite there. It's difficult to breathe, and if he allows himself to think about it he'll panic. So he tries to ignore the tape covering his mouth, and instead focuses on breathing shallowly through his nose.

Helpless. Helpless. Helpless. He loves Louis so much, it hurts. It hurts. He wants to be good enough for him; he's aware that there's no one in this world who's good enough for Louis.

The thing is, Harry knows it's a bit strange, knows it's a bit unusual. What person willingly experiences such torture, and then finds pleasure in it? It's pure masochism at its finest, and Harry is confident enough now to refrain from denying it. A while ago, before he met Louis, he might've been confused by it. Might've shied away from it.

But now . . . Well, now, it's become a part of him. The lovely pain. The beautiful torture. The relief in knowing that he's showing his devotion in the almost primal way—taking pain upon himself, for the sake of his love.

Well, only sort of. Louis really isn't a sadist, never has been. Harry was the one who started the whole BDSM thing, had even asked for it wordlessly, hinting at what he wanted and waiting for Louis to pick up on it. Nervously.

Louis had smiled when he realized what Harry was getting at, had wrapped his fingers around Harry's wrists tightly and watched in awe as Harry came apart underneath his touch. He wasn't a sadist but he liked the power, liked knowing that he had the capability of doing that, of enticing that exact reaction out of Harry. He wasn't a sadist but he would pretend to be one for Harry. Harry, the masochist.

Dominant-submissive relationships weren't easy, so Louis and Harry were doing very well considering the challenge. It required a lot of communication, and though their communication as a couple was better than most, it was the cause of virtually all of the conflicts that arose in their relationship. The safe word, kiwi, for example. Communication solved that problem, but it could've been avoided if they had just spoken about it sooner.

Harry breathes out a long exhale, mind hazy from the extreme amount of arousal that feels like an enormous vat of potential energy within him. He doesn't even have to try to not think about much, because when he's in this state all he can think about is the present. There's no past, no regrets. No future, no worries. Just now now now, the ache of latent pain and desire that's brimming from him. That, and Louis. It's impossible for him to think of anyone else.

Pleasure in penance, and peace too, yes, peace in penance as well. Release in retribution, that’s what he’s yearning for. There’s release and relief and reprieve, all beautiful words that he desires so deeply. And then the bravery, the valor in vulnerability. Courage. Pleasure, peace, release, relief, reprieve, valor. Penance and retribution and vulnerability. Self-punishment. Masochism.

These words are interconnected, woven together by a shiny golden thread.

Time drags slowly. Each second is like prodding at an open wound. Harry waits. An hour, maybe, but it feels like an eternity.

And then the door clicks open.

Footsteps cross the room at a steady pace, each pause between the footfalls perfectly spaced. Harry counts the steps in his head, listening:

One... two... three... four....

At ten the steps stop. Harry cannot see behind him but he knows that Louis is standing at the edge of the bed, looming over him. Waiting coolly, calmly taking in the scene of Harry lying waiting, taped up and tied up, unable to move. Wanting, waiting, begging, gagging.

"Have you been good for me, baby? Did you do what I asked?"

Harry lies still and hopes that Louis can see how hard he's tried to be good for him.

Cool fingertips graze the crest of his bum, running along burning skin in an unexpectedly tender touch. This is the only reprieve he gets before the metal plug is removed swiftly and three fingers are jammed into him at once.

Louis had used his own spit for the plug, but now, with the lack of lube, it hurts a lot. Harry knows Louis is careful enough not to cause any damage, but that doesn't stop the painful burning and pinching as Louis fills him with his fingers.

It's strange. There's the feeling of emptiness when he has nothing inside, then compared to the feeling of the metal plug which is another emptiness in its own kind of way. And the feeling of Louis' fingers which fill him up but aren't really enough. But Harry isn't greedy—at least he tries not to be. So he sinks deeper into the mattress and lets Louis take care of him. 

This is the bond between dom and sub. This is unadulterated trust and strong faith. This is love, in a strange, twisted, wicked form.

In the heavy silence there's the sound of Louis' fingers pulling in and out of him, relentlessly. Other than Harry's muffled breathing that's the only sound there is.

Tied up and completely helpless, he writhes on the sheet with limited mobility. That sickening feeling of pain mixed with blissful pleasure builds up in the pit of his stomach, and he lets it turn his mind hazy. There is nothing but here, nothing but now, nothing but Louis Louis Louis raging in his mind.

He comes with desperation, whining through closed lips covered by duct tape and making a mess on the sheets. The release, so long awaited, in its finality, is better than anything he's ever felt in his entire life.

Reality dips in and out of focus, and black stars flickering in his vision as his eyelids flutter open and closed. Everything is blurry and soft. Harry sinks into the bed, completely pliant and spent, exhausted.

Time passes, but Harry doesn't notice. He's too tired and blissful and relieved, satisfied from the pain and abuse in that strange way. Content.

Louis drops the dom act and peels off the duct tape. Harry doesn't even notice the sting. It takes a long time, and as Louis removes the tape he leaves gentle kisses all over Harry's skin, whispering praises. The kindness is such a contrast that it's startling, but welcome.

You're so good for me baby, so good. You did exactly as I asked. So good, baby. I love you.

Louis cleans him with a wet towel, on his tummy and his bum, and then rubs Vaseline on the areas of skin turned red and inflamed by the tape. By then Harry is more lucid so he sits up and kisses Louis deeply.

"I love you," he whispers into Louis' lips, his heart warm and happy. He feels so supported, so taken care of, and it feels lovely. The aftercare is a big part of it, but really it's the pain that makes him feel this way, the punishment that makes every soft touch feel even softer.

"Love you too, baby. You did so well, I'm so proud of you."

"Thank you for taking care of me," Harry murmurs, now nuzzling his face into the warm, comfy crook in Louis' neck.

"Was it okay? Was it too much?" Louis asks, situating them so Harry is sitting curled up in his lap.

"It was good," he sighs happily, undeniably relaxed and just so grateful to Louis. "So good."

"Is your bum okay?"

"Sore, but feels good."

Louis smiles sweetly at him, and Harry thinks he's glowing like the sun. "Alright baby. Let's take a nap."

They settle back into bed, underneath the hotel duvet, and Louis lets Harry curl up in his arms. For a while they lie facing each other, Harry as small as he can make himself with his face pressed into Louis' chest. Louis strokes his spine languidly, smiling when Harry lets out tiny content sighs. The gentle touch of soft fingertips on the bumps of his spine makes his skin tingle.

"Can I blow you?"

Louis laughs and then kisses the top of his head. "You have a concert tonight love, you need your voice."

"But-"

"No baby, let's just sleep."

"After," Harry presses, looking up into Louis' eyes.

"Sure," Louis agrees, probably just to placate him, and then he gently flips Harry around so they're spooning. Louis wraps his arm around Harry's bare waist, pressing the side of his elbow into Harry's hip and squeezing tightly so Harry feels safe and secure. "Now go to sleep—we have a few hours before you have to leave."

The afternoon sunshine is filtering in through the windows, and from the cracks in the blinds Harry can see the dark blue sky illuminated by the harsh, golden light of the sun. He likes this about hotels, likes being ten or more stories up and so separated from the noise and movement of the city below. Up here, everything is removed and peaceful. In the privacy of the liminal room he doesn't have to worry about ironing his face and setting his expression to neutral. He doesn't have to worry about being seen with Louis and he doesn't have to hide when he kisses him.

It's sad, but it's one of the few places where they can really be themselves.

Harry closes his eyes and relaxes into Louis' warmth. There's no use in thinking of what could be—only pain in its contemplation, and longing, too. He forces the image of total liberty from his mind and drifts off almost immediately.

Of course, his slumber is still filled with dreams of Louis. Of warmth, of the sun. The two of them and nothing more, beautiful silence and softness.

Six years. Six lovely arduous years they've been together, and together they've been through Hell and back. A surreptitious relationship is never easy and with them sometimes it seems damn near impossible, but they fight for each other with valor. Their love is strong, eternal, everlasting in the way that they refuse to give up on it no matter the pain or the fear. Because the pain is worse when they're alone, and the fear never really ebbs or fades.

There are an infinite number of universes, and Harry is certain he and Louis are in love in every single one of them. No matter the situation, no matter the circumstances, Harry Styles and Louis Tomlinson are two halves of one whole, carved from the same star, made from the same stardust. In most they find a way to be together, a way, any way, and it works out. But in those desperate few, something goes wrong, a mistake is made, and they're separated. Or irrevocably worse—never even together in the first place.

The thought makes Harry ache, even in his dream, so he pushes it away, and thinks of the universes where they don't have to hide.

He and Louis are lucky, though, that in this universe, they can be together.

 

. . .

 

Harry wakes up two hours later to Louis sucking love bites onto his neck.

He laughs, but let’s himself enjoy the feeling of Louis' mouth on his skin. Surely there'll be marks there, meaning he'll have to wear another high-collared shirt for his concert tonight. He presses his face into the pillow and allows Louis to leave marks all over his throat, not caring at all that Harry will probably get in trouble for it. It doesn't matter because he loves the bruises all over his skin, the bruises that mean he is Louis' and that's all that matters.

They shower together but it's innocent, no sex, just Louis washing Harry's hair with soap that smells like roses. There's no better feeling than Louis' hands in his hair, scratching lightly at his scalp so that Harry closes his eyes and happily responds to Louis' pleasurable touch.

By the time he steps on stage, later that night, he's blissful and happy, completely relaxed. Louis had unwound him. Pulled him to pieces, and then put the pieces back together in more perfect alignment.

The entire time, he feels at peace knowing Louis is watching from the side of the stage.

This is life for the two of them and this is how they live it together. This is how they get through the pain and the fear and the longing. This is how they survive.

There’s pleasure in penance and Harry knows this deeply so he lets Louis punish him when they’re both in the mood for it. He finds peace in that same pain, in the ache and the beating, and he enjoys it. There’s release in retribution and whenever he feels wound so tightly he can hardly breathe, he seeks out that same reprieve.

Louis. Louis is the reprieve.

And then the valor. The bravery. The courage in being soft and vulnerable and at the will of another. So trusting and faithful. Proving absolute devotion.

Call their love strange. Call their love wicked.

Say what you will, but Harry believes their love is beautiful.

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you so much for taking the time to read my work!
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> All comments are appreciated and they make me smile so much, no matter what. I am always open to criticism, feedback, and discussion so don't be shy and don't be afraid to say something because you feel like you'll hurt my feelings.
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> And if you enjoyed this or think your followers will, please [reblog the fic post](http://angelichl.tumblr.com/post/165950282219/you-and-i-found-love-lost-under-the-shade-by).  
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> Thank youuu <3


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